Gibbs and Ziva: Secrets
by sayoung1
Summary: Spoiler Alert: Through Agent Afloat. Ziva misses Tony, Gibbs provides one night of comfort. RATED M for content, sexual situations and language. Please review.


**Author's Notes:**

**Although I am a Gabby shipper, I wrote this because of a review and I hope you like it. Please review and let me know what you think.**

**OK. So I still don't know how to make chapters on the upload of stories.**

**SPOILER ALERT: ALL THROUGH AGENT AFLOAT**

**RATING: M for content, sexual situations, language. Please do not read this if you are under age. I mean it. I'll call your mom!**

**DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction about fictional characters. This work is not for profit, but for pure fan entertainment and as such is not an attempt to violate any copyright of NCIS or its holders.**

The night is cool and still as I pull back the blankets and get into bed … alone. The worn sheets are soft to the touch, but chilly as I settle in for a few hours of sleep. I turn off the bedside lamp, but my mind is still on. I keep thinking of all the things I want to follow up on tomorrow, calls I want to make, the next steps with the boat I'm currently working on … a dozen things. Even though tomorrow is Saturday and my team is not on call, I'll probably go into the office early for half the day. Slowly, I flip the switches in my mind, settling down on my most peaceful thoughts … the calm of a sniper. The core has special training sessions to help snipers reach a state of perfect calm – which is the surest way to hit a target. The rise and fall of my chest slows as I focus on my rifle of choice.

I was dreaming … about being a sniper – cleaning my weapon in my sniper's nest, the feel and shine of it, running my hand over the surface, checking the ammo. A light breeze caressed my face and noting it, I raised my weapon, correcting for wind, and adjusting my scope to lock onto the target … when I felt a hand grapple my arm, waking me. I returned the grapple with a counter move, my other hand forming a fist and opened my eyes ready for battle. And there before me … was Ziva. I looked around to make sure I wasn't in a hospital bed. No, thank goodness. Then I looked into her face and I understood.

Ziva's face was tear-streaked and puffy, her eyes red and swollen like she had been crying a very long time. I release her arm, scoot to the other side of my big bed and pull back the covers. Silently, she sinks into the bed next to me, her head on my shoulder, arm around my waist – just like the other times before – and just like before, this would be another of the secrets we kept safe for each other.

I had expected her, thinking she would have been here earlier. It had been building for a while as Ziva was still trying to fight a battle she had lost a long time ago.

I wrap my arm around her and wait as loud sobs push through her. I pull her closer, kiss her forehead and rock her as a mother would an inconsolable child. And I wait for her to be able to speak. Never tell someone to stop crying – never works. All you can do is wait it out – until they have no more tears left. Right now, what Ziva needed most was to get it out, in a place where she would not be derided for her emotions, where she was safe and protected. I honestly do not know if Ziva's father ever held his child like this, but I seriously doubt it or she probably wouldn't be here in my bed right now, shaking and weeping. Her tears wet the shoulder of my faded t-shirt. It clings to me cooling in the darkness. I don't move her because she isn't done yet and I've had worse than a damp shoulder.

Idly, I rub my hand over the hand Ziva has slipped around my waist. The knuckles are bruised. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping that it was a punching bag and not a person who has suffered at Ziva's hands. I sniff her breath and find no traces of alcohol – that's a good thing. Ziva, in pain and drunk … makes for a few dead people in her wake.

As her sobbing subsides into noiseless anguish, her body shivers against mine. Waves of pain and longing cascade from her small frame. It was like the crying version of the dry heaves, her body still trying to cry when there was nothing left to give. I rub my hand over her bare shoulder, skin on skin, to soothe her. My rough hands slowly caress her smooth, muscular flesh in sure, firm strokes, to ground her, pull her away from the place deep inside herself that she reserves for storing pain.

I wonder for a short time how Mossad managed to train her to loathe her own tears, her human frailties. Ziva hated this part of herself, which was odd because she accepted it in others as a common human condition. For herself, these moments only made her feel unworthy, undisciplined … who had told her such nonsense?

And I wonder why I hadn't had a woman in my bed for so long. Ziva's warm body was molded against mine, triggering my body to betray the needs I had intentionally been ignoring. Jen's death … I'm still not ready to think about it. It seems these days I visit far more graves than living people. My body is adamant, but I'm not some teenager anymore and Ziva is not here for sex. A different, meaner man might have pressed for something in return for sharing a bed – and while I may be a bastard, I'm not that kind of bastard. It just goes to show me that I've been between red heads for too long. I take a another deep breath and shift to grab a tissue from the night stand for her – and will myself to relax.

She blows her nose loudly, breaking the relative silence in my bedroom. Clutching the used tissue tightly, she is shaking – it worries me. I get out of bed, pulling her with me into my bathroom, flipping on the light switch as we enter. I put her on the closed toilet seat and start a shower, water closer to hot than warm. "Clothes off," I order her, in a voice that lets her know this is not a request. She peels off her clothes and I put her into the shower. Still in my t-shirt and boxers, I climb in with her, my back to the cold tiles and she leans with her back to me. The water washes over her, pouring over her face, down the valley of her breasts and tumbling further. Little by little, she relaxes. "Breathe," I say and she starts taking deep breaths, her breasts rise and fall at slower and slower paces and the shaking stops. I kiss the back of her head and massage her temples. She wipes a hand down her face, removing the tracks of tears. I'm sure the knuckles on her hands sting, but as far as pain goes, I know she is more than capable at dealing with the physical – the emotional, not so much. I push her out of the shower and grab my robe and wrap her in it. Her hair clings wet to her face. I pull off my t-shirt and I get a hand towel. I sit her on the toilet to rub the towel through her hair. I take her back to the bedroom, turn on the bedside lamp and make her get under the covers again. "Stay here," I tell her. She stares into my eyes, searchingly. "I'll be right back," I assure her, grabbing a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt, I return to the bathroom.

Quickly, I strip out of my wet boxers and get into the sweatpants and t-shirt – not that I'm so modest I couldn't do it in front of Ziva, but I just need to get the image of her body out of my mind … I think about football, cold winters and alimony payments before flipping off the light and returning to my bedroom.

I offer her a shirt and boxers – she makes quick work of slipping into them – although they are large for her. Back in bed, under the covers, she resumes the position, head on my shoulder, arm around my waist – only this time, she is more relaxed and she is finally ready to talk. She buries her face into my shoulder for a second – as if she might start crying all over again. It is with effort that she prepares herself to utter the one word I knew was coming. "Tony."

"I know," I say, kissing her forehead again. Ziva has loved Tony for a long time. That is one of the secrets we share. It's why she took film studies, why she baits him, taunts him with sexual remarks, drinks with him, worries when he's sick, would kill for him.

Her training as a Mossad assassin and my training as a marine sniper share a common thread … the philosophy that there is a right time – a right time to pull the trigger, a right time to spring the trap. And that had been my advice to her so long ago about Tony, that there would be a right time and that she would know it. Even when Vance split up the team, I told them all that we would be together again, that there would be a right time and I'd make it right because they are all still my team. Vance! He could have come to me with that damn mole hunt instead of screwing over my team. I got McGee and Ziva back, but he's still keeping DiNozzo as an agent afloat. Initially, Tony needed time alone to deal with everything. Tony was no good to anyone when Jen died. Confused and angry, he was lost. Being out to sea was good for him at the time, but now … truth be told, I miss my boy and he wants to come home.

Vance hasn't given me a timeline for Tony's return and every day that passes, Ziva and McGee are more and more aware of Tony's absence from the team. I catch them glancing at his desk, talking about him, missing him. Still, Tony hasn't called her. Tony couldn't face her, didn't know what to say. Tony couldn't get over the fact that Ziva had been right to worry about the Director.

Abby… Abby thinks somehow it's my fault that Tony is not back yet. I can see it in her face, hear it in her voice when she shows me the postcards she receives from Tony. It's created a small wall between us, less than a foot high, but still there. I expect an ultimatum from her any day now.

For a few seconds, Ziva is still and silent. Then the snoring starts. I roll my eyes, thankful that life as a marine has taught me to sleep through such noises. I'm glad she's asleep. I don't have answers or other reassurances to give her. I close my eyes and return to the sniper's nest in my dreams.

I awake before its light and like a mist she has already gone, silently, stealthily leaving without stirring me. I reach over and touch the spot next to me. It's cold. I rub my eyes and think for a few minutes about last night. I need three things: leverage, coffee and a date – but maybe not in that exact order.

After breakfast, I decide to drive to her house before going to work. The knock on the door brings no answer, so I use my key to let myself in. Still in my t-shirt and boxers, Ziva is sitting with various weapons in her living room, a James Bond film at low volume on her television. The smell of solvents immediately attacks my nose. She stops looking like she might kill me and manages a slight smile. I close and lock the door, crack open a window and come to sit next to her. "Cleaning weapons," she says by way of explanation for all the hardware spread out on the floor around her coffee table. Ziva's other form of therapy, is the calm and familiarity of weapons. Taking the time to properly clean and maintain a weapon is consuming – if you let it be. There is nothing quite like it and if you've been trained and drilled that you must cherish the weapon like a lover … the act itself of caring for a weapon takes on different meanings when you feel all alone. Weapons never leave you – you have to toss them away, and even if you do toss them, you can always go over and pick them up later. From the looks of it, she was going to spend all morning and part of the afternoon with her various weapons – they would be her confidants, her special friends with benefits, taking all the caressing her fingers could not give Tony now.

"Coffee," she asks. I nod and she heads into the kitchen. I use the time to look over her knives. Her collection is both deadly and impressive. Hmm. How did she come by that one? It looks new and I don't remember ever seeing it before. I reach out to pick it up, feel its weight in my hands and check for the balance of the blade. None of my wives ever bought me weapons on gift-giving occasions – maybe if they had, I'd still be with one of them now. I intend to ask her about this knife when she comes back from the kitchen – but she's been in there a long time. I rise from the couch to find her.

The coffee is ready, the mugs are on the counter waiting, but Ziva is clutching a package of specialty coffee – one that she got just for Tony, for their movie nights at her place. A lone tear rolls down her face. I take the package from her hands and wrap my arms around her, pulling her close.

"We'll go to MTAC and you can talk to him," I offer, but she shakes her head no. "To see him when I'm like this …," she trails off.

"OK. The gym. Run, fight, sweat. Make you feel better. I promise not to go easy on you." I offer this second option.

"I did that for hours before I came to your house last night," she answers.

I turn into a boss, hoping this will shake her out it. She's wallowing, drowning, and I'm still worried about her. As harshly as I can, I speak to her like a drill sergeant to bring her back from the deep end. "This is bullshit David! Take some time off. Travel. Go somewhere. You're no good to me like this." She raises her eyes to mine, a spark in them that had been missing for weeks appears … and then fades just as quickly.

Softly, she whispers into my shirt, "Sleep with me."

I pretend not to hear her. That would be a big mistake – she wants Tony, not me. We both know that.

"I don't want to be alone today," she continues. "It will be awful for you. I will cry and I will call his name, not yours, but I need to feel alive. This is killing me and I need to rid my system of these … these feelings."

I try to shush her, but she gets louder and continues talking.

"What is it that you call it? A shitty fuck, when you have sex with someone because you feel sorry for them? Only … only … I … I … Gibbs …stay with me."

"You mean a pity fuck. And no. This isn't what you need and I can't give it to you. You've lived in DC for a while now and you can find someone who you can screw and forget – if that is what you think it will take. There are plenty of marines, accountants, consultants … who would take you up on it." I push her back from my chest, forcing her arms away from me.

"Can't or won't? Who else can I trust," she says dropping her arms and stepping back. She shakes her head angrily. "I'll turn to McGee then. He would do this for me. Or maybe Abby." With this, she stares into my eyes, her look hard. "Abby would take care of me. Or maybe I will offer a trade to Vance, that if he allows Tony to come home," and with this she leans in close to me, a sexy smirk on her face, dropping her voice low, "he can have anything from me."

Ziva draws out the word 'anything' making sure I have the full understanding of her intent. I keep my face neutral – showing neither interest nor anger, but my hand itches to head slap some sense into her.

I grab the coffee pot and pour myself a cup, buying time and hoping she'll back down. She is silent while I slowly drink the entire cup. Out of the corner of my eye, I can tell her mind is furiously racing … deciding among options the one she will take.

Ziva walks over to me, takes the coffee mug from my hand and places it on the counter. She tilts her head and looks at me. She grabs my hand and pulls me toward her bedroom. "I can't be alone today," she repeats over and over again, like a hypnotic chant. I'll just hold her, I tell myself. The shirt and boxers she is wearing fly off and then she undresses me until I have only my socks and boxers on. We crawl under the covers and she's on top of me, her head over my heart. My hands gently stroke up and down her back as she straddles my hips, my thumbs tracing tiny patterns over her skin. Her lips find my left nipple and then her tongue snakes out to taste it. I let her, hoping she will bore of the seduction that isn't working and will cry herself to sleep. But she doesn't, instead she starts to talk, her face pressed to my chest, her soft breath washing over my skin.

"In Cairo, Jenny's operation went badly. I had to rescue her. She was in an ugly dark place and as she recovered, she whispered your name often, saying that if Jethro had been her partner, she would never have gotten kidnapped, beaten. She was heart sick, grieving for a living man and something she could not have. For two days, we shared a bed, leaving it only briefly for essentials. She cried hard the first time I touched her with my tongue, but by the last time, she had made peace with her pain and she could stop crying and start enjoying, healing. What I don't know is why you won't give that to me now Gibbs? When you must know how much I need it."

My answer is immediately on my lips – I hurt women, every woman I care for, I hurt in some way. But I don't answer her question out loud. Instead, I flip us over until she is on her back and I raise my weight on my elbows. I kiss her forehead, the tip of her nose and then her cheeks. I tease her, my lips just at the corner of her mouth and then over to the other side. Her lips part as her breathing speeds up. I graze my teeth over her bottom lip, pulling it a little and sucking it. My hand traces a path down her throat. I take a nip at the junction of her throat and neck. Ziva's whimpering, squirming beneath me, rubbing against my skin and I become very aware that she is naked beneath me, but I am still wearing my boxers and socks. I'll shed them later. Now, I just want to know her body. Her hands move down my back. I grab one and then the other and force them under her butt. "Later," I whisper and bend my head to suck a nipple. The contact makes her arch into my mouth. She pants. I vary the pressure until I find just what makes her yell. Ziva likes it firm, demanding.

I place hard kisses down her stomach, parting her thighs, which she spreads wide for me. I bite and suck one thigh and then the other. She thrashes a little at the contact, and moans, "Yes" and "Now." Her hands threaten to move from where I've placed them. She wants to control this, but I won't have it.

"Handcuffs?," I ask.

She pauses, her body moving, squirming beneath me, her mind processing my question and its meaning. "Bottom drawer," she breathes.

I get up, shedding the boxers and socks. "Trust me," I tell her after her hands have been secured to the headboard. Her eyes are already moist. "I do Gibbs," she answers. I lean over her and finally kiss her mouth, full and possessing, taking her emotions to the surface and bringing them out of her. She starts opening herself up to me in that kiss. Straining against the cuffs at first and then relaxing into the fact that she has no control in this, no control at all. The realization makes her start to cry, just a little bit. Of all the people I know, it's especially hard for Ziva to accept that she can't control everything. It makes her uncomfortable and if I had to guess, I'd say it's at the center of her emotions about Tony now.

I kiss her deeply, my tongue exploring her mouth, the way her tongue slides against mine, controlling it and showing her that I understand. I pull away, whispering against her lips, "Do whatever you need to. Cry. Scream. I'll take care of you."

I plant kisses on her forehead, my lips mouthing a silent prayer of forgiveness for what I am about to do. Then, I return between her thighs, stroking them with my hands and staring into her needy body. I rub a hand from her belly button down to her mound and I squeeze. She pushes her head back into the pillow, straining her body into my hand. I keep my hand right where it is and bend her leg to bite into the flesh behind her knee. This earns me a, "FUCK!" from her, as a shudder ripples through her body.

"I'm going to put my tongue right here," I say squeezing her mound again, "and I need to know that you're not going to do something painful to me with your thighs. Do I need to restrain you?"

As she considers her answer, her hips gyrate under my hand, as she tries to increase the pressure on her clit. I pull my hand away to let her think better and an answer comes to her quickly. "Scarves, second drawer, just above where you found the cuffs." I secure her legs quickly making sure there is a little give. I also find her lube and a vibrator in the scarf drawer. Those, I sneak close to the bed for later.

I get into position to feast upon her. I begin a steady exploration. My fingers part her, exposing her pink center, and my tongue delves between the folds to discover the flavor of Ziva David. Lips, teeth, fingers, tongue – all work to discover what will give her pleasure. Ziva thrashes beneath me. She yells "Faster, harder, more," and she sobs when I don't comply. She flexes her thighs- I feel every powerful muscle attempt to give her a quick release, but they are of no use against the restraints. She gulps for air.

I curve two fingers just right after I find that special spot she likes stimulated inside her wet core and just before she crosses the threshold of her orgasm, I withdraw. I am called bastard, asshole, and several other things in a few different languages – her body shaking in rage, tears streaming down her face, her chest heaving. I am threatened with a slow painful death and then I am offered my choice of her weapons if only I let her cum right now. I wait for the anger and the crying to subside, brushing the hair from her face as she curses me. A lover would give her what she wants, but I am not her lover. I am only her friend, so I must give her what she needs to break apart and be put back together again. In a while, she stops straining against the cuffs and the scarves, stops swearing, stops pleading. He face is wet and flushed, her emotions raw and at the surface. I rub my hands over her sweaty body to soothe her. I tell her it's ok. I tell her that I'm here to catch her and then I bite into her arm and roughly push her thighs wide. Slowly, I start again, light pressure on her clit, a gentle rhythmic in and out of two fingers. As much as they can, her hips try to drive a faster rhythm, harder pressure. She is so wet. Her body so wants release, every pore crying out for it as she vibrates against her restraints. She is so close, panting. But I need to push her emotionally. I stop again. She giggles crazily, then whimpers. Her hair is everywhere, I push it back and I'm rewarded with a snarl. She is beautiful and angry and powerful – her muscles flexing and gleaming with sweat.

Slowly I start again, but she is so sensitive right now that even the slightest touches make her moan. My investigation of her body is not nearly complete – and I am nothing if not a thorough investigator. But Ziva has a look on her face that I can't deny, I don't want to deny. I climb between her wet, spread thighs covering her with my body and hammer into her, driving deep and hard. The shock alone, almost makes her cum right then. A few hard strokes are all it takes and she goes crazy. It hits her loud and violent. She bites into my shoulder, which only barely muffles her screams – and I know it's going to leave a nasty mark that I will have problems explaining to Ducky. Her sweet tight core is squeezing me in rapid hard pulses. The force of her body meeting mine speaks volumes of how badly she needed this, needed someone safe to emotionally drain her, shatter her, and then help put the pieces back together.

I can feel myself preparing to enter the spiral with her, but I pull my body and my mind back from the edge and leaning away from her on my knees, I slow my pace to almost nothing, just enough for her to ride out this first orgasm. When she finally opens her eyes, she sees the vibrator in my hand. I thrust myself into her as deep as I can go in this position and turn the vibrator on low. She watches as it gets closer and closer to her clit. Ziva's mouth forms a noiseless "O" as it gets closer, closer. The slightest touch makes her hips jerk beneath me. It will take very little to make her cum again. Jesus. I can't take much more. My control is slipping. She is looking into my eyes, her face shows a mixture of many things, and she is hard to read as so many thoughts pass through her mind. I ask if her arms are sore and she says no, but I see her hands moving behind the head board. I move swiftly, reaching the spare key before she gets to it. I should have known. I give her my Gibbs stare as I resume gently thrusting into her. "I only wanted to touch you," she moans by way of apology. "Later Ziva," I reply. "There is a time for everything and right now is about making sure you feel everything I do to you, every emotion."

In this she has no control. It hits her again. Her eyes well up with tears and the crying starts again. "Please get Tony back," she whispers. Anger, ecstasy, and desperate longing for what she really wants.

I bend down close to her, covering her with my body and sinking deeply into her, giving her the contact and assurances she needs. "I will. Tony will come home. And I'll look the other way when the two of you decide to break Rule 12." I kiss her forehead and lean back, missing the warmth of her and then I turn on the vibrator again. I roll it over her nipples and then down her sides and over her taut stomach.

The tears stop and her body begins to respond again, powerfully. Words form on her lips but I can't pay attention to them because I realize I can't take much more of the way her soft wet core is squeezing me. I dip the vibrator lightly over her clit while I slowly fuck her. She jerks, her eyes fly open

I do this a couple of times and then I place it firmly there while I fuck her faster. The sound of buzzing and skin on skin grinding fill the room. I'm jerking, loosing rhythm, eyes fluttering. "FUCK!" Her body is throbbing, pulling at me. Oh God. She makes an ear splitting noise as she cums again. I fling the vibrator somewhere in the room, bend down close to her, sheathing myself fully inside her and I cum hard. Spurt after spurt, deep inside her. I'm surprised when my lips silently form the name, "Jen" her image floating in my brain, and like a ghost she haunts me. I'm breathing hard, my body heavy and Ziva wriggles beneath me. I release her from the restraints and we fall asleep – not caring that the pillows are wet from tears and the sheets are wet from sweat and sex.

She is still asleep when I wake up. I watch her and then I say a little prayer that I've done the right thing. Without warning, I'm thinking about Jen and my eyes are wet. I can't hold back the few tears I shed for what might have been and what now can never be. I want nothing more than a double shot of Jack right now, but I don't want Ziva to wake up and find me not here. I sense something … a slight movement, just before I hear Ziva say, "How did you know I had handcuffs?"

I plead the fifth and grab her up to go shower. She clings to me and I tell her it will be OK. She is emotionally and physically exhausted, no tears, empty. After the shower, I heat up some left-overs and I make sure Ziva eats. I'm sure it's the first real meal she's had in a while. I watch her / read the newspaper as she finishes up with her weapons. She is quiet at first, not brooding, but thinking and then she hums a song in Hebrew. It's a sweet, almost happy melody. Ziva has a lovely voice, but I don't break her concentration by asking about the song.

When the weapons have all been put away, we get into running gear (I always have my workout clothes with me in a bag in my car) and we do an easy run. I know running for Ziva is like working on my boat for me, and I want to tire her out. We don't talk, we just get into a steady running rhythm and lose ourselves in our own thoughts. When we get back, she seems different, better. We order Chinese take-out and watch _The Good, The Bad and The Ugly_.

At the end of the movie, Ziva grabs my hand and leads me to her bedroom. I want to say something, but she puts her fingers over my lips, which reminds me of Jenny. We strip the bed, putting on fresh sheets and blankets and toss off our clothes. I lie on my back staring at the ceiling, I'm tired and worried. I'll just hold her, I tell myself.

Ziva straddles my hips. I rest my hands on her thighs and we don't speak. She pushes her hair from her face and smiles at me, her lips curving sweetly. "I wouldn't have gone to McGee or Abby. Vance, I may yet kill," at this she laughs wickedly. "But I wouldn't have trusted anyone with this but you Gibbs. Thank you."

She leans forward, her hair brushes my chest and then my face before her lips reach mine in a gentle kiss. And then she leans back. Her eyes have fire in them and I know that's she gotten a little bit of her soul back. Her look turns predatory … hungry – it makes my cock jerk beneath her. Ziva grins broadly, when she feels me tensing beneath her and then her tongue darts out as she licks her lips. Everything about her isn't asking me, it's telling me. That's when it registers in my brain that she is going to ride me hard, she is going to take everything … ANYTHING she wants. It's later and her time for control is now.

My palms rub wide circles on her thighs, while I wait for her to make her move. She attacks me with her mouth, bending low and forcing my lips apart. She is wild, kissing me deeply and pressing her hips against my groin. My hands grip her and I rock myself upward. She's already damp, so warm and so wet. A low moan escapes my throat, only to be captured by her mouth as she greedily wrenches it out of me. My mind is swimming when I feel her roll her hips so sensually … a prelude of what is to come soon. She kisses me lightly and twists my nipples. "Damn," I pant. She sits up, breaking our close contact and arches back, her hands graze the insides of my thighs, sending jolts through me. I wet my thumb in my mouth and press it to her clit. Her body shivers at the contact, making her breasts shake … just out of reach of my mouth. More of her juices pool over my throbbing cock, coating me. She growls, a sound that tugs at my brain, driving me crazy. It is so primal, I want to take her right now and I have to mentally head slap myself that it's her turn to be on top. Please God don't let her make that sound again.

She wants it now. She raises up a little and positions my cock at her opening. I move my hand so that I can see everything. OH! She slowly moves up and down on the first 2 inches. I pant … hard … fighting myself to let her control it, but I really want to grab her hips and slam her down hard all the way onto my cock. I stop looking. The sensations are incredible. I toss my head back, releasing a long moan that has been building inside me. My thighs strain, waiting for the command to push my hips upward.

"You want more don't you," her husky voice fondles me. It's not a question, but an assertion of the truth. The look on my face, the throbbing of my cock – they tell Ziva everything. I look into her face and show her the battle for control playing out in my body and my mind. And then I show her pure desire, unashamed want and in case she needs a little encouragement, I offer it, "Do it. I want you to. You can have whatever you want. Ziva." I punctuate each word with a flex of my cock inside her. She trembles as my hands roam all over her body, firm presses, light caresses.

Ziva starts a slow purposeful rotation on the tip of my cock checking for just the right angle. It feels … it feels … so … damn … good! Her muscles curling, swirling around the head of my cock! I curl my hands into fists and pound the mattress. Ziva bites her lip and then erotically sighs. This angle is good, but she thinks that there's one better … and then she finds it. She releases her lip and pants hard, tensing, waiting. Something passes across her face – I've never seen that look from her before. She stares all the way into my soul, tugging at me, preparing me … for something savage. I move my hands to her hips and with the slightest nod, I say yes. I lick my lips and hold on.

I was not ready for it when she slammed her hips hard against mine, my hard cock sliding all the way inside her slick slit. I yell and call on God. She is thrusting hard against me at the most perfect angle. I know that the force she is using will leave bruises and I don't care. I don't stop her. I hold onto her hips and try to hold on to my sanity. She feels me tensing, starting to spiral. "Wait for me," she yells this order, in between the moans and pants and expletives. Her hands on my chest, move to squeeze my nipples between her fingers. It hurts so good.

I try to make my mind blank to pull myself back from the edge. I can't! I …. CAN'T! My mind is filled with need, my body equally united in the demand for the rush headlong into sexual oblivion.

Frantically, I wet two fingers and begin to work them furious over her clit. Her hips fly against mine as she yells, "YES!"

And then she makes that noise. I can't take it … I…

As I continue to work over her clit, I use my other hand to grab her hair, jerking her face to look into mine. I scream at her, "GOD DAMN IT DAVID! COME ON MY COCK NOW! OR SO HELP ME …"

It pushes her over the edge … she's .. she's cumming so hard, squeezing me! Vibrating, milking me sweet and perfect, calling …something …thrusting her hips … her breath against my collar bone … making that sound deep in her throat…

My body … my mind … coil so tight … I'm shaking … the release is coming swiftly … coursing through me fast and hot and brutal … and then it's … PULSING! I exhale hard, my body convulsing, pulsing, pulsing again and again. I close my eyes, release my hands and enjoy the delicious sensations that ripple over, around and through me … pulsing … pulsing … puls…

When I open my eyes again, I feel Ziva's weight on my chest, her breath warm against my skin. Although I am spent, she has not released me from her gently throbbing wet, pink sheath. It is one of the most wonderful sensations ever. Oh God! I'm laughing, panting. She joins me, giggling softly.

My breathing evens out and I notice my chest is becoming damp from the drool escaping Ziva's lips. I stroke her back lightly. She whimpers slightly as my now soft cock slides slowly from her. A few minutes later, she is snoring peacefully. I roll her gently off my chest and pull up the covers over our now cool bodies. I wrap an arm protectively around her waist, spooning and drift off to sleep, smiling in the darkness.

It's still dark when I open my eyes, my arms still firmly around her waist. I ease out of bed, kiss her shoulder and head to her bathroom. I clean up a little bit and head to the kitchen to start coffee and to think. Naked, she joins me in the kitchen and sits on one of the stools.

When the coffee is ready, I pour us each a cup. We sip in companionable silence. She is better, not fixed, but better – I can tell. The knot in my stomach eases. Her shoulder sports a nasty bruise from where I bit her. I can feel bruises on my own body, reminders for the next few days of the night we've shared. I finish my coffee and clean my cup. It goes without saying that this was a one-time thing and another of the secrets we will never speak of to anyone.

"After a shower, I'm going. You Ok with that," I ask her.

She smiles – a genuine smile that's in her eyes, and in her body. Ziva nods yes. I kiss her forehead, take a quick shower and I leave.

That week, we find out that a case has intersected Tony's case as an agent afloat. I decide that Ziva, not McGee will come along with me to investigate. She tries to play it cool because Vance has made it clear that Tony will have another three months minimum as an agent afloat, but I know she's anxious to see him. Her hair is beautifully curled to frame her face, her eyes are warm and bright and she's wearing his favorite pants and heels. This is what Tony' sees when they lay eyes on each other for the first time in months.

There is a time for everything and at the end of the investigation I decide it's time for Tony to come home. Vance back doors me with a private conversation with Tony, explaining that he is re-assigned to my team. I'm sure Tony will fill me in later about the rest of that conversation. Ziva nods to me. I look at her and tap my watch, encouraging her to make the most of this time. I shake Tony's hand to officially welcome him back and then I leave for my date. I've decided to give brunettes a chance.


End file.
